Boots
by caitythelioness
Summary: He started wearing boots too soon. :Dean-centric, one-shot.:


_Disclaimer: No characters, no plotlines, no nothings belong to me. I take my liberties when I can. _

_A/N: Inspired by a 'prequel to the series' comic that I found. A good read, a nice look back into the making of John Winchester, the hunter. Recommended to any Supernatural fan. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one._

**Boots**

He had started wearing boots too soon. Proper men's boots – steel capped toes, laced to above the ankle, heavy as all hell. They had been a gift for his birthday, a 'welcome to manhood' present from his father. Sam had given him a whistle he'd whittled himself. In the depths of his heart, Dean knew which one he preferred. It was nice to have a token of what his life had been like before he had known. Before he had lost all his innocence – and future and faith along with it. Something's were never made to last. The boots however, as ominous as they were, had fitted well.

"Dad," Dean had said, half-awed and half-disappointed as he admired the robustness of the shoe. He _had_ really wanted a Gameboy. "We can't afford these."

"Nonsense," John had rebuked. He might not be a perfect dad, but a birthday he would never miss. "I've been saving up for a little while. Besides, you're going to need them now…" His voice faltered, smile slipping a little. "…now that you're a man. Happy sixteenth birthday, son."

Dean knew that wasn't what he had been going to say.

Two days later, Dean made his first ever kill.

It had been straightforward, easy – his first hunt ever was almost always going to be a gift. As desperate as he was for a hunting partner, John wouldn't risk one of two anchors holding him to the world. It was almost like a test. Make sure Dean had the balls, the stomach to track something and see it through. And he had. He'd wasted the son of a bitch without second thought, and his father had clapped him proudly but warily on the back. His path was chosen now. There would be no turning back.

When they had gotten home (home at the moment being Room 116 at 'Roadside Motel'), Dean had felt oddly terrified. Sam watched him with frightened eyes as he scoffed down their makeshift dinner, knowing something had changed forever but too scared to question what. Soon after Dean feigned exhaustion and escaped to his room. Once alone, panic gripped him. Fear ruled his stomach until he thought he would be sick, and he had to clutch the end of the iron bedstead just to hold his food down. These things, what if they tracked him back here? What if they left a trail? What if they found them, his family, sleeping and unaware? Who would protect them? How could he save his family if he wasn't ready? Questions plagued his mind, cycling over and over until his eyes were grainy with the sleep he needed but wouldn't allow himself. The thought of getting undressed, even the contemplation of one second of vulnerability made him so anxious that panic nearly overwhelmed him. Eventually he had drifted into an uneasy doze, unable to resist the lethargy.

A few hours later, when the first rays of dawn touched the sky, Dean woke in a wave of guilt and fear. He was on his feet in seconds…how could he have fallen asleep? How could he have let his family down like that? He had vowed it before he had properly woken up…he wouldn't do that again. He would always be ready. Dean's eyes strayed to his boots. No one ever won a battle in bare feet, he mused.

So two demons, three hotels and four very painful days later, those damn boots were still laced firmly to his feet. He was in utter agony, barely able to move and hold up the pretence for his dad and Sam. It had really been no surprise, therefore, when John had cornered him at the gas station after sending Sammy in to pay.

"Dean. Why haven't you taken your boots off? I mean, I'm glad that you like them so much, but…" He tired valiantly to lighten the situation with humour, but Dean didn't rise. John frowned with worry. "What's going on, son?"

Dean looked up at his father, and knew it would be impossible to lie. Then he looked at the ground, unwilling to meet his eyes anymore. "I have to be ready," Dean's voice was barely above a whisper. "If things come for us…what if I'm unprepared? I can't fight if I'm not ready…what if I can't save us?" He could hear the tears in his voice, much to his own horror.

There had been silence for a moment, then John stooped and pulled him into a tight hug. Never one for affection, the movement would have surprised Dean if he hadn't felt like he was falling into a crevasse of his own trepidation.

"That's not your job." His dad whispered fiercely into the top of his head. "It's not your job to save us. It's mine." John pulled away, looking at his son squarely in the face. "You don't have to be scared. I will teach you everything you need to know. Boots won't save you, Dean. Your courage will." His voice was so intense that it scorched into Dean's brain, hammering around until they found a secure anchor. "You will always be ready. I won't let you down."

Sam came out of the store then, holding three bags of crisps and juggling the change in his other hand. John straightened, ruffling his younger son's hair as he snaffled a packet and tucked the change into his pocket.

"You ok, Dean?" Sam asked in a small voice, as they clambered into the Impala.

Not trusting his voice to betray him, Dean nodded and smiled, trying as best as he could to emulate that fearless way that their father held himself. He wondered briefly if he could ever be that strong.

John left the motel by himself that night. It was late, and even though he took no gear with him, Dean wondered if he had already been a disappointment, so soon. He took the boots off. He slept like a teenager should. His father returned early. He mustn't have been hunting after all.

And when Dean woke the next morning, there was a brand new pair of sneakers – black and new and free – sitting at the foot of the bed.


End file.
